OUTDOORS

OUTDOORS; Fly-Fishing for Shark With Help of Barracuda

By Peter Kaminsky

Published: February 23, 2003

ISLAMORADA, Fla.—
I suppose you could call it the Nascar version of fly-rodding or, perhaps, the W.W.E. I am referring to the light-tackle mayhem known as fly-fishing for sharks in the Florida Keys.

After a day-and-a-half standoff with the huge bones of Florida Bay, my host, Allan Finkelman, and I, joined a shark-fishing expedition mounted by the Montauk (and Key Largo) master guide, Paul Dixon, along with the Keys guide, John Milchman, and Tim Borski, who is well known in fishing circles as a painter of sporting art and an innovative fly-tier.

Although sharks will occasionally take a fly presented without the inducement of live bait, one's chances of hooking up improve when a chum slick is thrown into the mix. Borski's preferred bait, freshly caught barracuda: the concentrated and pungent oil of the barracuda is a powerful attractant even at long distances.

At a location that I am honor bound not to identify, we headed for the reef and once there quickly took eight small barracuda on spinning tackle and lures. With our bait wells filled, we motored on a gently rocking sea, under a high blue sky, toward a huge flat that shimmered like 1,000 acres of green jade in firelight.

Dixon, Borski and Milchman set up a drift on one edge of the flat, ceding the prime spot to Finkelman and me, about a mile to their east. Allan butterflied a 'cuda. He passed a rope through its gills and tied it off on the bow cleat.

We waited. With Finkelman, an extremely thoughtful angler, down time is often instructive. He can dissect an imperfect cast on the spot, pointing out flaws and suggesting corrections.

''You got one at 5:30 about 200 yards out,'' Allan said.

I turned my head and picked up the silhouette moving into the tide with the shoulder shrugging motion of a shark on the prowl. And then, like a dog responding to its master's whistle, he turned, straight for the boat.

''Hold your fire,'' Allan said. ''Remember, he can't see that well. Get the fly right in front of his eyes when he is 30 feet out.''

When the shark was in range I heaved the huge fly. The shark swam right by. ''You stripped too much,'' Allan said. ''Keep it still or just barely move it so that it stays next to his eye.''

The sharks kept coming and I began to interest them. Finally, one locked onto my fly and I saw his mouth open. ''He's got it!'' Allan said.

But I was too slow. Allan explained, ''You have to come tight and strike hard.''

Just then Dixon called on a cellphone. As if I were listening to a Bob Newhart routine, where you hear only one end of the conversation but can figure out exactly what is being said on the other, I knew what was going on as I eavesdropped.

''You've got three in the slick.''

''He's got it!''

''You dropped him?''

''The other one turned off. The third one's turning.''

''Paul? Paul?''

Then, speaking to me: ''Tim's got one. Let's go.''

We approached to within 50 yards of Dixon's boat (leaving the shark plenty of running room). For the next 10 minutes, Borski reeled, reached one hand forward on the rod and put his shoulders into it as he backed up and lifted. We got our first look at his fish -- a tawny, yellowish lemon shark about eight feet long.

After another 10 minutes of lifting and chasing, they brought it to the boat. We snapped pictures and then Milchman and Borski released it.

''We've got a ton of bait out, and we were on a good spot. Hop over on our boat,'' Borski offered, and I accepted.

Borski and Milchman strung out all five barracudas and shook them vigorously to release a lot of scent. I placed my fly in the water about 10 feet from the bait ball. This would be more dapping than fly-fishing, but the distinction mattered little when a huge lemon rocketed out of a cloud of mud that it churned up as it turned on the fly.

Buck fever, or its shark equivalent, overtook me and I snatched the fly away, but I barely had time to collect my thoughts as another shark bore down and inhaled the fly. It pulled my rod as violently as anything I have ever had on the line, and that includes blue marlin. We followed the fish, I reeled for dear life, pumping briefly whenever I could. At last I caught sight of what I took to be a 200-pound fish.

''About a hundred and twenty,'' Milchman said, which would have made it as big as any tarpon I ever hooked. Remembering how Tim had fought, I backed up and lifted, attempting to bring the fish alongside, but on the third attempt, he broke free.

That night I called my family and told them about my 150-pound shark (and in my mind, by that time, he was). The next day when I returned a friend's phone call, he congratulated me, ''I heard you caught a 300-pound shark!''

It's just as well that this appears in print now before my fish becomes Moby Shark.

Photo: Peter Kaminsky, center, fly-fishing for shark in the Florida Keys off Islamorada with the guide John Milchman and Tim Borski. (Allan Finkelman)